Peeta's Hunger Games
by Mea1
Summary: The story through Peetas point of view. His relationships with family, his daydreams about Katniss, and how he ultimately decides to sacrifice himself in the chance of saving her. Events in this fic are inspired by accounts in the book, filled-in with moments from the movie and lastly, my imagination.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Dawn is breaking. I have been up for a couple hours at least. So have my dad, my mom and my two older brothers, the idiots. Life begins early in District 12, a coal mining community. But our mornings as bakers start dark as pitch. Before the sun rises. Before anyone rises. It could be worse. Much worse. Coal mining, the backbone of our district, is dangerous. Not that myself or any of my family and friends would know. Many men and women have given up their lives cracking away at the seam underground for wages that barely cover the cost of food and no chance to do anything different. No one's died from baking bread as far as I know.

Pink and orange blends of light silhouette the trees outside the window. I pass it carrying hot bread from the ovens to the cooling racks. The air is more tolerable in this part of the bakery where the windows are thrown wide open and away from the burning ovens. Beads of sweat on my brow are threatening to drip in my eyes.

"Race ya, Peeta," my oldest brother says speeding past me with a bread tray. Before I can object he nearly takes out our mother as she turns the corner. Good thing she held on to the bag of sugar she was carrying. If that ended up on floor my brother and I would get beat for sure.

"Damn you boys! This isn't a playground! Where do you think you are?" She yells at both of us even though I don't deserve it. I hardly ever do but I'm convinced this is the only way she knows how to communicate. "You could have dropped all the bread I spent all afternoon kneading. And for what? Racing around like pack of wild dogs?" She goes on and on. My tray is getting heavier by the minute and yet there is no end in sight. "I don't care if today's reaping day, work still needs to be done. People still come in for bread. It's how we make our living, you know!"

_Like I never put two and two together in my sixteen years as a bakers' son_, I think. I feel the heat from the tray burning through my oven mitts. The lines in my mom's face are beginning to relax or tire out, I don't know which. The end is near.

"I may not be able to get rid of you anymore," she throws an evil eye at my brother. "But you...," she nods at me then walks away with nothing more.

Of course, only my uncompassionate mom in all of District 12 would say such a savage thing to her sons on reaping day. Other families, I imagine, are holding their children tight never wanting to let go. Probably slept in their beds with them or watched them sleep or comforted their nightmares. Our mom's biggest peeve is that her three sons never think. What is she thinking here? The reaping is the worse day in all of District 12. The Capitol may call for the country of Panem to rejoice but, truly, it is an anti-holiday. It is the day that marks the beginning of the annual Hunger Games. Two young people, a boy and a girl tribute, get shipped off and told their only hope of return is to kill twenty-three others. The odds are not favorable. This? This is what my mother would prefer? My cold dead body?

The last of the bread is on the cooling rack and I pause to think_, if I ever have kids of my own, they would only know my joy_. I'm past spiting her. I leave that to my emotionally challenged brothers. I get through most of my early morning chores without incident. I stay away from my brothers and my mom.

Because mornings are busy with baking and attending to customers, in the back, just steps away from the ovens, is a small dark table where my parents lay out food for us to grab and nibble on while work. Mostly day-old bakery items, small pats of butter that needs to be used up, a handful-sized jar of homemade applesauce, sometimes fresh goat's milk or cheese if we're lucky. My dad is hovering at the table facing out the window that looks out back to our apple tree. He takes slow measured bites and chews repeatedly, like a cow would. Where one of my mom's tirades could fill a book with the number of words she spews my dad is the exact opposite. Like he's been given a set number to words to speak in his entire lifetime he must choose the few he utters with great care.

"Morning, dad," I say. I see the back of his head nod.

I pick up a stale bun and gnaw on it. Some water helps me push it down. My dad shift his weight slightly, a movement I interpret as jumping out of a chair. "See if your mom needs help," he says. Code for make sure the coast is clear. I'm about to make an illegal trade.

Taking a hard swallow I finish the bun and head to the front of the bakery where my mom sells our goods. I just need to tolerate five minutes-tops-in her presence then I can resume my mom-free morning. Today is the reaping so customers are few and far between. Afterward, however, business will pick up. The relief that their families have remained whole is cause to celebrate. Except for those two families... the two who have one less child. Their lives will have changed forever. The reaping will be worse for them every year whether they have more children to offer up or not.

I find my mom needlessly sweeping the porch since there is no one around to buy bread yet. She must need to stay busy in order to keep from complaining. What a tiring life to be so angry all the time. I stopped trying to explain to myself how she got that way. I don't dare ask her, I doubt she'd be truthful about it anyway. All those years locked up in pain, the inward truth about it would be hard to admit. My dad offered an abridged version, "Your mom is the way she is." Thanks, dad.

Looking out into the town square I spare a sweeping glance as dozens of Peacekeepers prepare for this afternoon's event in an organized fashion. Banners hang from the Justice Building baring the seal of Panem. A small stage is set-up. A microphone and chairs are put into place. Rope barriers square off where the children between the ages of twelve and eighteen will stand in horrified anticipation to find out if their name is called. Sturdy scaffolding surrounds the square on top of which dozens of cameras will perch in hopes to capture the one golden shot of television magic. The lead story that could define this year's Hunger Games.

I step out on to the dust free porch and hand my mom the dust pan. She looks at me with her tired eyes and gives me a hint of a smile, a thank you. There is a little bit of remorse in those blues eyes. Eyes like mine. She is sorry for what she said to me.

"Empty the ovens, did you," she says in a bark but a soft one. I nod. "Good. Check on the rises. They might need punching." She sends me away with a jerk of her head. I'm all too happy to leave her.

By the time I get back the breakfast table my dad's visitor had come and gone. He's already gone to work skinning a squirrel. He looks up at me and says, "It wasn't who you hoped." I guess my face was an open book.

Katniss.

A girl I can't stop thinking about. A girl I know never thinks about me. A girl I've never spoken to. She's a girl from the Seam with dark hair and gray eyes like steel. She's probably just as tough as it too. What could she ever see in me? A boy who bakes bread for a living. I'm not a miner covered in coal dust. I don't hunt like she does or like her boyfriend Gale, don't know the first thing about it. I'm too busy, covered in flour and sugar, wielding a pastry bag. I can frost a mean cake. I sigh leaning into the doorframe feeling the usual defeat. This realization I come to on a daily basis, sometimes twice in a day. Yet my mind travels to her and I have to take that painful journey back to reality again. Well, at least tonight we'll have a bit of fresh meat after the reaping. I think I'll go punch that bread.

My brother and I step into the marketplace, dragging a hand truck behind us. Not many are open for business this morning for the obvious reason. But since we have a standing order for flour and sugar and such to pick up our suppliers agree to open just for us. They greet us kindly knowing we'll be in the reaping. Our eldest brother is over eighteen and therefore no longer eligible. But not us younger two. My name will be in the big glass ball four times, one for every year since I turned twelve. My brother has two more than I do. His chances slightly worse than mine.

We load several bags of flour onto the truck. Tossing the awkward bags down with enough force that it makes a boom each time we drop one but careful enough that we don't split the bag. I can't even think the kind of lashing we would get if such a mishap occurred. Like the rest of the town the owners have lost their tongues and remain virtually silent. They have children too and their minds are preoccupied with worry. When they bid us farewell I see they worry for us too.

Heading back to the bakery hauling several hundred pounds of flour, in the distance, I spot a familiar gait walking in the direction of the Hob, a rundown coal storage building that is now used as the black market. Her braid waves across her back as she trots holding on to her game bag. She doesn't notice me. Never does. But I keep watching Katniss until she steps out of my view. How many times will her name be put in this year? More than four even though we're the same age. Seam folks, the miners, have it tougher than the merchant class. That's putting it mildly. Not just because of their occupational hazard. My family has enough to eat but not in the Seam. 100% of the starvation occurs in their part of town. Predictably, my mom has no patience for the starving. My dad, on the other hand, is a kinder soul, one that I alone inherited. Both he and I, and most of the town crowd are aware of the difficult choices that Seam families have to make. To keep their families fed a child twelve or older can sign up for tesserae, a portion of extra grain and oil for themselves and each member of their family. The cost is your name will be put in extra times for every tessera plus the mandatory yearly entry for each year you are eligible for the Hunger Games. Katniss has a single mother and a little sister. To avoid dying of hunger she took advantage of this program. It is perverse the way the Capitol takes advantage of the poor, almost ensuring _their_ children are sent to the Games. I cringe at the hard truth, that 'Katniss Everdeen' is printed on twenty pieces of paper this year. Her odds are worse than my brother's.

I feel a jab to my arm but don't react. I know it's my stupid brother trying to take me out of my reverie. He thinks I don't notice him until I punch him the gut.

After we unload the flour into the pantry my mom orders us to get ready. She must be caught up with all her work because her usual demanding tone is back. After bathing I find a newly pressed white shirt and tan pants waiting for me. I slowly get dressed, too slowly for my mom as she barks a reminder for me. The nervousness is creeping in as our time to leave gets closer. The morning flew by as time does when you don't want it too. But now that's it's just after 1 o'clock, I want to get it over with so my heart can beat at its normal pace again. I enter the hallway when I hear my mom, "So help me Peeta, you better not make us late!" I roll my eyes at my dad who just exited his room. He chuckles slightly then gives me a hug. Not a one-armed macho hug, but with two arms and a reassuring pat on the back. He releases me and I see his sad smile. I return it in kind.

"You should comb your hair more often," he says and goes down the stairs.

My brother and I make our way to the town square just steps from our storefront. We sign in and shepherd ourselves into the holding area categorized by sex and age. I catch the eye of my good friend three rows ahead but we say nothing. The dryness in our mouths and the rapid heartbeats prevent it. Afterward we'll breathe a sigh of relief and find our voices then.

On stage is Effie Trinket, escort from the Capitol, in a lurid green suit crowned with a disturbingly bright pink wig. At least, I hope that's a wig. Disturbing and lurid are common words to describe Capitol people. Mayor Undersee is seated next to her and then there is an empty chair. The town clock strikes 2 signaling the beginning of the reaping. I feel the heat of the sun and from bodies surrounding me emanating it. The tension in the square thickens. Oh look, the mayor is talking now. When did that happen? The pounding in my chest is so loud it's affecting my hearing. I doubt any one is paying attention anyway. In between the sounds of what feels to be my heart trying to free its way out of my rib cage I hear pieces of the history of Panem and the creation of the Hunger Games. Okay, I'm not missing anything new. This stuff is droned on enough during lessons at school.

Someone new has arrived, Haymitch Abernathy, the only surviving victor of District 12. In our local history, there have only been two Hunger Games victors . A Haymitch-sighting is rare. I catch glances of him as he walks to the Hob to by drink, no doubt. The way he's walking now, towards Effie, it's clear he's been drinking all night. There goes Effie's hair - yup, it's a wig.

Effie makes what she believes to be covert adjustments to her wig as she clicks her heels on the stage to the microphone. Almost over. It's almost done and I can go back to my life. Her usual "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor! Ladies first!" rings perfectly in my ears. Apparently, my mind knows when to switch my ears back to hearing things outside myself. Very clearly, like a bell, she says, "Primrose Everdeen".

I feel my eyebrows knit in confusion. Everdeen... That's Katniss' surname... That's Katniss' sister - the little girl that knocks at our back door and trades her fresh cheese for bread with my dad. I've seen him look at her with sad eyes as he gives her more bread than what the cheese is worth. Good for you, dad. What must be going through his mind at this moment? I can't imagine what her mother is feeling and don't ever want to know...

A sharp breath escapes my lips as I hear Katniss calling for her sister. The anguish in her voice chills me under the hot sun. It penetrates my bones. This must be Prim's first reaping. Is she even old enough? She barely looks eleven. The outside ring of people are aghast. It's rare for first-timers to be called but it does happen and when it does the hearts in our district collectively break. To know that this young child will face off against a 200-pound, 18-year old is despicable. The Games isn't about keeping the offending districts at bay, it's about keeping us frightened and humiliated and hopeless.

Katniss is shouting now. I force my ears to work again and then I hear her.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as Tribute!" Katniss screams making sure she is heard by all. Making sure her sister is safe. My friend glances back at me. He's caught me watching her a few times but had the decency not to tease.

Prim is screaming, screeching, as Gale rips her from the skirt of Katniss' dress. The crowd is holding its breath. Aside from Prim's protestations I don't think it could be any quieter than it is now unless we all drop dead. Katniss takes the stage, her demeanor so calm in the face of death. I want her to win, of course, but there hasn't been a winner in our district since Haymitch and he won over 20 years ago. Katniss will need to overcome that 200 pound nearly adult man. Thinking about it more I bet she could do it. Scale a tree and shoot him in the eye like she does with squirrels. I feel a little ray of hopeful sunshine that she might be ok, she might have a chance. Now Effie is asking for applause for Katniss' bravery but not a single person stirs. I don't think anyone has let out their breath yet. Then a few start it, more follow and so do I. Bringing three fingers of our left hand to our lips and we hold them out to Katniss. We say "thank you" in this silent gesture. More than thank you, really. It's a great sign of admiration and respect. Still, Katniss remains a statue.

Staggering along the stage, and blocking my view of Katniss, Haymitch begins to address the crowd. He's not near a microphone so I can't hear what he's saying. Regardless if he was amplified I'm sure we'd only hear slurring. It appears in his drunken stupor he understands the circumstances which brought this brave girl before us. She'll go down in history as the girl, the first District 12 citizen, to volunteer for the Hunger Games. Infamously, it's the more affluent districts like 1, 2 and 4 that groom their young into fighting menaces, illegally I might add, but no one's ever been called on it. Naturally, volunteers in those districts are abundant every year ready to conquer or be defeated for the honor, the glory, the pride. Essentially they buy into all the Capitol propaganda. Here in District 12 we view it as sacrificing innocent children for no good reason. My thoughts are safe in my head but I look around in case there are mind readers. No one ought to hear them. Independent thought outside of the Capitol's strict parameters of what is an acceptable line of thinking will be construed as treason. Treason in any country, I imagine, is dealt with an unspeakable punishment.

Haymitch is still slurring. His arm is around Katniss' shoulder almost as he's using her for a crutch. He's shouting something, pointing to one of the many cameras filling the square though all of them appear to be trained on his every jerky movement. I see Katniss' expression falter for a second. She's worried yet she's trying to stay strong. For what? For who? Her family, no doubt. Primrose is the apple of her eye. She's staying strong for her. Speaking of strength, every muscle is straining in Haymitch's body to keep himself upright, fighting with his alcohol-infused brain that's seems to want to shut down. He promptly falls off stage in a clatter and lies unconscious. A stretcher arrives to cart him away.

Effie takes center stage again but I keep my eyes on Katniss who has her hands behind her back, staring into the distance. Effie's high-pitched voice is saying something again but I can't catch what it is. Regret and sadness begin to weigh me down. This afternoon has lasted a week and here we stand only half way through the reaping. My thoughts travel in their waywardly way... All those days in school since kindergarten I've watched her. She's caught me looking too. Our stares met a few times but I always look away. I've seen her and her sister come look at the decorated cakes through our window. Did she notice me peering through the glass? Unlikely. All those missed opportunities I let slipped through my fingers, my feet rooted to the ground, my voice lost in fear. Why? Because, well because... I haven't worked that out yet. But now, I won't have that chance again. The despair hits the pit of my stomach like I swallowed a lump of coal. If Katniss survives and returns as a victor, I'd say my chances will be even slimmer. Although, with the victor's riches she would enjoy a life that knows no hunger. She could buy all the cakes in our window that her sister admires and more. Who knows, Katniss might become a daily customer. I'm slightly cheered up by this far from reality scenario. I'm daydreaming again, in one of my Katniss reveries from which I find it hard to recover because in my mind it's more pleasant than my reality.

But that's when I hear it. My ears in perfect working order again. In Effie's pasty hands she is holding a slip of paper. She calls out with absolute clarity, "Peeta Mellark!"


	2. Chapter 2

Bam! My fall back to reality knocks the wind out of me.

Earlier this year, during a champion wrestling match in school against my brother, he pinned me down, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I couldn't take a breath and ended with second place. That same struggle to get air into my lungs now consumes me as the boys surrounding make a wide berth like I'm infected. I might as well be. To my death I go. The part of my brain that controls motor function is working properly. I find myself taking sure-footed steps up to the stage. I see all of District 12 before me but don't really see them at all. I see the forest but not the trees.

My brain has shut off my ears to help me regain a normal breathing pattern. Words are being said somewhere in the distance. I see the hills and mountains beyond the forest of District 12 citizens. Is this what Katniss was looking at the whole time? Hm, they are peaceful. Tree branches are swaying in the gentle wind that swirls around the green hills. Patches of bright white sunlight are reflecting on their shiny leaves. I'm glad I can appreciate the view. I'll never see these hills again once I'm removed from the stage. My eyes close briefly, taking a snap shot to remind me later of this solitary moment. I hope I never forget it. Goodbye to my home, my family.

Will they miss me? I'm certain they will. My mom, as hard as she is on us boys, deep down she must love us. Wonder what she's feeling now that my name has been called. Responsible? Psychic? Guilty? A part of me feels gratifyingly spiteful. I know, I said I was past that. Now that the unthinkable has happened I'm expected some latitude in irony. My brothers? I don't care what my brothers think. My dad, my dad on the other hand… Never knowing what he is thinking has motivated me to earn his approval more than the others. He gives it willing in his subtle demeanor and every ounce is worth it's weight in gold. His grief is what I feel saddest about. Mourning me will not be easy in his way and I fear it would weaken him. He'll have no words. What words he would choose I suspect he will choose not to say for fear of giving away too much. In the years living in our household I've come to suspect that my dad hides behind his silence. No one can take advantage of your fillings if they believe you to be indifferent. Protecting himself from his wife, my mother, against her accusations and insults, he leaves her no tools for her to manipulate. Has he always been this way? I've never asked. I wouldn't get an answer.

Many summers ago, when Katniss, or Gale, would first come knocking on our back door my mom would answer their call. Depending on her mood, determined whether or not she gave a fair trade for their meat . Often times, knowing they were from the Seam and expecting they should be satisfied with any trade, she came out ahead. One time, however, she interrupted a trade my dad was conducting and berated him for making such a worthless swap. Without looking up at her, he finished his business, bid Gale a good day and walked past my mom like she wasn't there. Of course, my bothers and I got the worst of it. She had to expel her venom on someone and we were the closest targets. I guess my dad had built up an immunity to her poison and could walk away unscathed. Through the years I wished he would share his secret with me. Then I remembered who he is… Therein lies the downside to my dad's restrained disposition. The times that I really needed someone to give me _more_ he couldn't be there be for me emotionally. In his younger life I bet he was like my brothers. Unwilling, perhaps unable, to express the nuances in life, the shades of sadness, vibrancies of happiness and all the colors in between. Which leads me to my next unanswerable question: what did he ever see in mom?

My breaths are still shallow but coming in evenly. I'm surprised I'm not hyperventilating. With the exception of my ears, my brain is doing a good job regulating what surely is hysteria coming on. Not here. I won't break down here.

How is Katniss doing it, keeping herself together? This is exactly the reason why I stand no chance with her. We are about to kill or be killed and Katniss remains standing tall. While I'm willing myself to breathe just long enough not to make it to the Justice Building so I can collapse in private. She belongs with Gale, someone as tough as she is. Are they really together? Many people suspect it to be true. I often day dream that it isn't. There is vibe between them that isn't overt but is definitely present. Almost all the girls drool over Gale when he walks past at school. He takes no notice but he must notice, at least a little. The only one whom I've never seen gawk at him is Katniss. Possibly because they really are together. She can get eyefuls of him when they hunt alone in the woods together.

I helped her once. I had a chance to speak to her one rainy day five years ago. She was in my presence at the back of my house, her cheeks hollow from starving, defeated. But yet, I didn't utter one syllable. I was in the back of the bakery peering into the hot ovens as the nut and raisin loaves reached their doneness while my mom was kneading a batch of bread for the next day. Facing the window she noticed a girl in our backyard. With a loud grunt of frustration she banged out the back door.

"Move on little girl!" She shouted furiously.

I was right behind my mom when I saw her-Katniss. This was the worst I have seen her. That look of starvation was not unfamiliar to me. Sluggish movements, an unfocused look of despair, the thinning of her body going frail. In the rain, soaking wet and pale, it was clear to me she was knocking on death's door.

"Do you want me to call the Peacekeepers? I'm sick of you brats from the Seam pawing through my trash!"

My mom returned into the bakery repeating the same hateful words under her breath as Katniss replaced the lids back on our trashcans then moved towards the bare apple tree. I was compelled to act. Standing in front of the ovens I saw the loaves were ready. With the oven shovel I picked up several loaves and dumped them on the wooden table to be ready to put on trays so they could cool. But the last two I pushed closer to the fire where they immediately began to scorch. Adjusting the shovel I removed them out of the oven. No sooner than it took for me to put them on the table my mom saw the burned loaves and yelled something awful at me. I recoiled slightly, preparing myself for what I knew was inevitable. She grabbed a fat wooden spoon from a pot filled with utensils. In her fitful haste the pot crashed to the floor. I felt a swift blow on my cheek as she hit me hard with the spoon.

"Pick up that worthless bread and get out of this house!"

Without question, the breads were unsellable. Rather than eat it ourselves for supper my mom decided to further my punishment by having me go in to the rain and waste this otherwise good bread by throwing it away. An act that was easily foreseeable. She wouldn't want to look at the blackened pieces and be reminded of my stupidity. Her desire to make me feel guilty out weighed more food on our table. Well, I happened to know of a family who doesn't have the luxury to discard food in any form. I opened the back door and went outside, my feet splashing in the mud as I headed to the trashcans.

"Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!"

_Even better_, I thought. Katniss was slouching against our apple tree by the pig pen. I tore the blackened areas of bread and tossed them to our pig just as the customer bell rang. I was certain my mom went to attend to the buyer and could no longer see me but I checked behind me anyway. My face was smarting and stinging but I didn't want Katniss to see me this way so I didn't look her way once. Maybe I could finally look and talk to her tomorrow at school? Looking only at the pig I pitched the loaves of bread her way and traipsed back to the bakery closing the door firmly so my mom wouldn't see.

While I placed the good loaves onto cooling trays I looked over my shoulder through the window in time to see Katniss tuck the loaves in her jacket. Good, I thought. She needs the warmth in this weather.

More work needed to be done so I didn't treat my wound. As a result, my cheek swelled up and I could barely see out of my right eye. I remember thinking I was going to bruise for sure. But it was worth it. I'd do it again. Everyday for the rest of my life if Katniss needed me too. The girl who needs no one whatsoever. Certainly not a boy who can't defend himself from his mother.

The next day, as school was ending, I was walking with some friends when I saw Katniss headed my way. I decided I'd wait until my eye healed to talk to her. I didn't want our conversation to be dominated by her staring at my ugly bruise wearing a look of disgust. When I knew she wasn't looking at me, I watched her and Prim heading in the direction of their home. In an instant, it's like she knew I was staring because she looked up and held my glance for a split second. Immediately I turned my bad eye away from her and didn't look up again until I saw she crouched down to pick up something I thought she dropped. But she was picking something growing out from the grass. A weed, a yellow dandelion.

I'm back on the stage again my recollection dissipating like morning clouds at high noon. I shake my head a little realizing whatever speech that was being conducted has stopped. The mayor clearly is gesturing for us to shake hands at this moment. I hold her hand in mine, look into those steely eyes and want to tell her it will be ok. But, true to form, I don't say it. Even thinking it sounds utterly worthless. She observes me passively and we turn to face the square again.

The Hunger Games is likely to claim both our lives. What is there to say?


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

After our brief handshake, a team of Peacekeepers escorts Katniss and I into the Justice Building where I wait inside a richly decorated room. One hour is allotted for me to say goodbye to loved ones. As I stand in the middle of a sitting room I behold the dark tone wood paneling, the wooden chairs and end tables that match. A small cushy couch covered in a shimmery blue fabric invites me to take a seat. Just as I sit a handful of my friends file through the door. Some look me right in the eye, others find it hard to. Just like waiting in the pens for a random name to be called there is a silence seemingly impossible to achieve with so many people in a cramped space.

What do you say to someone who is likely to die? I end up doing a lot of the talking. I joke about how I won't have to study for our upcoming math exam. That there's one less person to beat in wrestling next year. They smile the same saddened smile bestowed upon me from my dad this afternoon. They have given up hope. They are certain I cannot win. I know it and so do they. We exchange hugs and more silence until a Peacekeeper opens the door and tells us time is up.

The door remains closed for barely a minute when it reopens. Heads heavy, my mother and father enter the room somberly. My brothers backs are up against the wall. It couldn't be any plainer they were forced here against their will. I don't blame them. Their lives have been devoid of genuine emotion within the walls of our home and now they have to face their baby brother standing with a death sentence hanging over him. A nightmare for two people ill equipped to deal with anything more substantial than a sarcastic remark. Their eyes dart around the room landing anywhere expect upon me.

My mom sits on the wooden chair before me as I sit on one padded with the shiny blue fabric, she swallows hard before she says what she came to say, as if to final her resolve to speak. It's the longest she's gone without saying a word in my recent memory. She starts with minding my manners at the Capitol. Show them District 12 isn't a backward town of country folk. Normally, I'd strain my eyes to prevent them from rolling but I figure she can't do me anymore harm now. She won't strike me in such an important place as the Justice Building. My face will never know her anger again. I let my eyes do what they want to do. She purses her lips, which makes me smirk, but she continues her etiquette lecture anyway.

As she loses momentum or she realizes she can no longer make me listen to her (my eyes have been rolling so often the muscles controlling them feel sore) she brings up Katniss. Saying what a fearless and strong young woman they have selected to stand up for District 12 for a change. She's a survivor.

I almost take my hand to her myself for talking like she knows Katniss. It occurs to me, my mother probably never realized who that girl was digging in our trash.

The thought repulses me. It must show on my face because my mom's mouth settles into a thin line and she says haughtily, "Well, you know, District 12 just might have a winner this year."

"Mom," my eldest brother has found his voice for my defense, stepping toward her. But one look from mom stays his tongue.

It's enough though. When my mother speaks again it's much softer with a touch of remorse. "Peeta, you'll make us proud, won't you? You'll comport yourself with dignity when-"

My father chooses this moment to clear his throat. We all stop and stare at him as if he shouted. "Give your son a hug. Then leave. All of you. I have something to say to him," he says.

At this my mom and brothers are in tears including myself. I hug my mom in a way I haven't since I was a small child. I never wanted to until now. Even my brothers leave their stations at the wall to come forward and comfort me with their strong arms usually reserved for tormenting me. I see droplets forming in their eyes. I get another tight hug from my mom and she's sobbing now. I tell her not to while choking through my own tears. They exit the room and I know my time is running out.

Just as the door clicks shut tears stream down my father's worn face. I suspect he instructed the others to leave because he only wanted me to see him cry. He speaks nothing but each spilling drop represents a thousands words. He's saying he loves me. Do your best out there. I believe in you even though others don't. I'm so sorry about Katniss… I'll miss you more than words could say.

My dad envelopes gives me with his strong arms. Muscles that have enlarged through years of lifting heavy bags of flour, carry thousands of bread trays. Arms that if by some remote chance I should live to be a father I would surround my children in an embrace like this one every single day I had with them.

I hold my dad even tighter. The hysteria I was fighting off has won over me and I'm racking with sobs. Shaking so horribly I'm upright only because my father is holding me. When the Peacekeeper comes to move him out my dad says, "Goodbye, son." The door shuts behind him.

My family is gone. I will never see them again.

We arrive at the train station packed with cameras capturing every angle in hopes to gain new insight about us, Tributes, from the time we get out of the car that drove from the Justice Building to the time we step onto the train. My face appears on a nearby screen catching me off guard. _Better get used to it_, I think. Despite the swelling around my eyes I take a longer look at the screen with me on it and think, _my dad's right - I should comb my hair more._

From the time we left the stage to walking past the barrage of cameras here on the train platform Katniss has been a moving statue. Her movements fluid yet controlled and her expression aloof. Much like she carries herself as long as I've watched her. Doesn't being named Tribute phase her in some way? Surely, her family came to say goodbye, and Gale, too. I can't imagine that she held this same stony gaze as she parted with them. It dawns on me that Katniss has two faces. One reserved for her those closest to her and one for everybody else. It's a good working theory. Why would she publicly display a smile or grimace when she rarely does so in school or in town? Yes, I'm certain this is why. _Oh man, what I wouldn't give to see her smile..._ an inaudible sigh escapes my lips.

Once the doors close in a hiss, the train shoots forward gaining speed faster than I could have wildly imagine. Effie tells us we'll be at the Capitol tomorrow.

Geography lessons are limited in school. The surrounding districts are outlined in a dotted fashion but no more detail is offered. Perhaps so as not to give us any ideas about joining forces if we don't know much more about each other than our district number. The Capitol sits in a cove of mountains I heard referred to as the Rockies long ago. It's far west of here.

There. Geography lesson complete.

My sleeping compartment is larger than I expected for something that is moving 250 miles per hour. Much larger than the room I share with my brother. Not that I have been on a train before. No one is allowed to leave their district without permission. The furnishings are soft to touch in rich fabrics unfamiliar to me like the stuff that covered the couch in the Justice Building. I look forward to sleeping alone for the first time in my life. No one's snores to wake me in the middle of the night. I won't be awoken by slap on the face. The bed covers are soft and furry and cool to the touch.

I cross over to the chest of drawers laden with clothing no one has worn before. I pull off my shirt that belonged to my brothers in turn before it came to be mine. I pull on something new.

I like this.

I look for a pair of pants too. There is a wide variety of colors to choose from. Extending my choice options each color comes in varying shades.

Is this what it is like each morning in the Capitol? Stunned with too many choices you can't even decide what to wear? I've seen garish colored ensembles on television that pair a loud green with an even louder orange and still furthering the assault on the eyes with accessories in more screaming colors.

I go through several outfits until I find one that suits me. It looks much like what I wear back home, just brand new. Perfect.

How long have I been at this? The sun has set. Effie's voice pops into my heading reminding me about supper.

It's almost time so I make my way to the dining car. I pass through two cars, one of which is has a highly polished bar with stools tucker under. An impressive array of shimmering bottles stacked behind it in appetizing colors catches my eye. I picture myself sipping some of the amber liquid then sampling the turquoise one.

While I am admiring and walking I run into what at first I think is a servant who hasn't washed for several days. When I look up I see and recognize him. "Haymitch!" I say, my eyes widen in surprise.

"And you are?" He says in a breathy voice that passes along all that he's drunk in the day. My eyes sting from the fumes on his breath. "Nevermind," he pushes past me, "I need a nap."

I'm the first one to arrive in the ultra fancy dining car. I'm afraid to touch anything for fear it would break under my touch. I'm conditioned to feel clumsy after all those years of being told so. Then I decide right here and now to stop thinking this way. I don't live under my parents roof anymore and besides I've always known my mother's accusations to be unjustifiable anyway. I'm living what's the rest of my life on my own terms. Well, sort of... present circumstances being what they are and all. I pick up a shiny crystal goblet and set it back down. Nothing happened. It's still in one piece. I sit at the table, handle and examine all the components that make up my place setting. I don't break a thing, as I knew I wouldn't. To my surprise the car door slides open revealing Effie and Katniss behind her. Abruptly, I bring my hands to my lap nearly knocking over the crystal goblet. It's wobbles at it's base but then steadies.

"Where's Haymitch," asks Effie Trinket brightly.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap, " I answer.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day," says Effie. She must be recalling Haymitch's nose dive off the platform earlier today.

Nothing could prepare me for the 5-course meal that is served to us. There's nothing to share, no making sure we have enough for everyone. The food is fresh and soft and hot. Like the carrot soup that reminds me of autumn. A green salad comes next, then lamb chops with mashed potatoes. Oho, meat-an abundance of it. I could ask for seconds if I wanted to. The only seconds I've ever had was dry bread that sat in a basket for a couple of days.

Platters of rich cheeses and fruit in all the colors of a rainbow are brought. Lastly, chocolate cake. We bake those too back home but nothing as luxurious as this. What is in the frosting that makes it so light and fluffy? The cake is spongey and moist. It must be the butter and the eggs, the wet ingredients. They have more than we would ever have to use for just one cake. The perishable stuff is limited in our area. We use them sparingly thus resulting in a dryer, dense cake.

"At least, you two have decent manners," says Effie as I take my last mouthful of lamb smothered with buttery mashed potatoes. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion."

I remember those kids from the Seam with their hollow cheeks and pale skin. How could she blame them for their lack of manners? They finally had food to eat. Curious, I look up to see Katniss' reaction since she's from the Seam and probably knew them. I smirk as she pointedly puts down her fork and knife then proceeds to pick-up the lamb chop and suck the meat from it. Ignoring her napkin she wipes the grease off her fingers on the table cloth.

Ok, that was more food than I eat in three or four days. How did I possible fit it all in my stomach? The answer's clear now, it doesn't fit and is in danger of finding it's way up. I keep my mouth firmly closed as I pool all my resources into digesting my meal. It's a good thing that we are now watching reaping recaps. I don't have to say a thing and I can concentrate further at the task at hand.

Throughout the districts the reaping affair is pretty similar. It is the one of the only times other districts are featured on television. Countrywide reapings are held in the town square. Each district has a Justice Building and stores framing the perimeter but in the distance you can see the industry each district represents. The factories in 3 and 8. Rows of trees organized with near perfect precision in 11. The wharf and waves lapping against it's posts in 4.

Volunteers jump up from the expected districts but no one does the same until District 12. The careers from 1 and 2 appear healthy and strong. Up close and personal they'll be menacing. In the Hunger Games arena they'll be deadly.

In contrast, my attention focuses on the smaller tributes. Katniss has edged her seat as a young girl from 11 is called. The girl has dark skin and hair, bright brown eyes and she is tiny. She can't be more than eleven, I think. The thought is familiar to me. Then I remember I thought the same thing about Prim today. I think of Prim standing next to the career from 2 and shudder. Katniss and I must having similar thoughts at this moment.

The show is over and I managed to keep all my dinner where it belongs. Effie makes a comment about Haymitch but I don't hear it at all. The large supper has made me drowsy.

Either my ears are failing me again or I'm starting to selectively tune Effie out. A skill I learned growing up. I need to be careful though as our escort Effie does some important stuff for us. I'm not exactly sure what yet but she can't be here just for decoration. I remember appearing to listen to my mom's instructions about something but not really retaining anything. That completely backfired when I returned home with two boxes of baking soda instead of baking powder.

So I mentally open up my ears. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior," I hear Effie say.

I laugh out loud. I can't help myself. "He was drunk. He's drunk every year."

"Every day," Katniss adds. It's true now that I think of it. What is a sober Haymitch like?

"Yes," Effie accents her s's in a more audible hiss, "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors..."

Ugh. This self superior, long-windedness is all to familiar. I'm in danger of tuning her out again.

"...and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

The compartment door flies open and the dirty servant, I mean, Haymitch, staggers in. "I miss supper?" he manages to get out before vomiting and falling right into it.

"So laugh away!" says Effie as she steps over Haymitch and his mess leaving us with our lifeline in a pool of his own vomit.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Each of us takes an arm and hauls him up. The smell is worse the closer I get to his breath.

"I tripped?" asks Haymitch. "Smells bad."

"Let's get you back to your room. Clean you up a bit," I say.

Haymitch walks most of the way but it's clear without mine and Katniss' help he'd be wiping his face on the carpet and settling down to nap on it. We make it to his room with some effort and struggle a bit more to get him into the bathtub. Katniss turns the shower on him. Passed out and unaware of the deluge of water falling upon him, I doubt he'll remember anything about tonight.

Good thing, too. What would he make of two strangers, kids even, stripping him down and bathing him? Well, in case he does come to during bath time I should send Katniss on her way. Though, honestly, I don't want her to leave me.

"It's okay," I say to her. "I'll take it from here."

She looks at me. What is _that_ expression? Oh, relief. Well, I don't blame her. I'm not looking forward to getting to know Haymitch intimately.

"All right," she says. "I can send one of the Capitol people to help you."

"No. I don't want them."

Katniss nods at my response then leaves.

Letting the water run, just as I reach for the buttons on Haymitch's shirt, I begin dictating my actions aloud to him. I announce loudly and in an mechanized voice clearly indicating that I am in now way enjoying this scutwork, that I'm taking off his shirt, undoing his belt, slipping off his pants, removing his under garments. I don't know why I'm saying these things in the voice I am saying them with. Perhaps to give him fair warning in case he is somewhat conscious or to make me feel less weird about the whole predicament. I wash him up with soap and hose him down with a shower head that disconnects off the wall. _This is handy, _I think. His soiled clothes soak in the sink.

Hanging on a hook behind the bathroom door is a robe made from the same stuff as the towels. I get Haymitch into it, lead him to his bed and ease him into the crisp clean covers. As I shut the door to his room I notify a passing attendant that someone will need to launder Haymitch's clothing.

Exhausted from a grueling day that started about twenty hours ago-baking bread, getting sentenced to death together with the girl of my dreams, eating the best meal of my life, ending weirder than expected inside a bathroom washing sick off a 50-year old man-I find my way back to my compartment and hit the showers myself before I collapse on the bed.

It's a surprise to me when my eyes open to find a grayish light peeking into the room. Didn't I just close them? I pull myself out of bed and am instantly aware my shirt is sticking to my back from sweating through the night. As I hop into the shower, I hear Effie Trinket rapping on my door. "Up, up, up! We have a big, big, big day!"

I'm in for another surprise when I enter the dining car. Haymitch is sitting at the table accompanied by Effie. She looks up and greets me enthusiastically and hurriedly beckons me to join them. Being in an enclosed space with Haymitch certainly is making her nervous. The image of him in the bathtub pops into my mind. I shake my head like a wet dog to erase it from memory.

"Peeta," Effie says somewhat alarmed, "didn't you sleep well?"

I stopping shaking, smile my answer and sit down beside her. Haymitch doesn't look up nor does he say a word. _Please, please, don't remember what happened last night, _I will to him.

The breakfast meal is as expansive as last night's dinner. Just as I tuck in I'm served eggs, potatoes and sausages on a platter the size of a watermelon. A basket brimming with rolls in all shapes and sizes is placed next to me. I pick the butteriest one I can find. Fruit chills before me on ice. i think every color of the rainbow is represented in hues so deep and bright it's hard to believe they're real. My family once visited the mayor's house where I saw a bowl of fruit that couldn't be eaten. Just for decoration. Madge, the mayor's daughter, said the Capitol sent it as a gift one year. With all the resources the Capitol has access to someone has the audacity to make fake food and, to add insult to injury, send it to an outlying district.

"Try this," Haymitch says pushing a steaming mug with a creamy brown liquid filling it.

"Is that coffee? I tried that once and don't like it," I say.

"Not coffee. You'll like it," he says. His reddish face pauses me. Perhaps last night he was semi-conscious and revenge is looming in this mug. I bring it to my mouth hesitantly taking the smallest of sips.

But, again, surprised. I allow more of the liquid to pass through my lips. It's like I'm drinking soothing, warm bliss from a cup. Abandoning all my suspicions I finish it all on the spot. I could use a little more bliss in what's left of my life. I just might glutton myself to death before I make it into the arena. That would be a better way to go, wouldn't it?

"Can I have more-uhhh-" I look around to the nearest server.

"-hot chocolate," Haymitch finishes for me.

In seconds my mug is refilled. This time savor it.

"So, honey," Haymitch begins as he swigs some red juice that smells astringent, "I woke up this morning fresh and clean in my bed. I'll bet you your crystal-studded platform heels I didn't start the night off that way. You didn't have anything to do with that, did you?"

_Please be talking to Effie…. _I busy myself with my breakfast now.

Effie clangs down her petite fork as her sparkling purple lips form a straight line. She regains herself with a long breath. Then with a measure voice she says, "the last I saw you, you were licking vomit off the floor,"

"You don't have to be shy in front of-what's your name again?"

"Peeta," I say, not looking up as I cut up the sausages.

"Right. Peeta. And the girl again?"

"Katniss,"

"Look, honey," he looks mock-sweetly at Effie who appears now to be fighting off a migraine. "If you saw something you fancied last night-" he gestures up and down his body.

Images of last night in the bathtub pop-up in my mind. The sausages no longer appealing, I stick to the roll and hot chocolate instead.

There's an ear-splitting scrape as Effie pushes back her chair and ejects from it. Clutching her cup of coffee she tromps out the door as Katniss enters through it.

"Sit down! Sit down!" Haymitch calls to Katniss.

Her reaction to the food laid out before her is similar to mine. Except she's wary of it as if mistrusting it all. She's peculiarly interested in the hot chocolate. Probably thinks it's coffee like I thought.

"They call it hot chocolate," I say hoping to convince her. "It's good." I watch her sip it-it's a winner.

Our meal is silent as Katniss drains her mug then clears her plate, Haymitch drinks and I dip my roll into my new favorite drink. There's nothing for me to say. I can't get over the Haymitch's and Effie's last conversation. Realizing I'm not going to eat it, a server thankfully takes away the sausages.

Katniss breaks the silence. "So, you're supposed to give us advice."

"Here's some advice. Stay alive," says Haymitch then laughs.

Rarely does my anger overflow into aggression. Chalk it up to years I've kept it all in, let it dissipate in the work I do. Take all the misguided fury conferred to me and bury it. Then I remember I'm not doing that anymore. I look at Katniss first before I turn to our mentor who, at this rate, will be drunk by noon.

"That's very funny." I say with an artificial smile. Then I smash the crystal glass out of his hand. "Only not to us."

We stare at each other for a long moment thinking I got his attention. But that's when his fist drives into my jaw and I fall to the floor. I press my hand to my jaw and the other on my head where it hit the floor. I hear quick shuffling then a precise thud.

I stretch out my jaw to check for dislocation and find it's still in good shape. Just sore.

"Well, what's this?" I hear Haymitch say. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

I push up from the floor to find Haymitch sitting with an impressed but smug look on his face. Katniss still gripping the knife she plunged into the table. I grab some ice but Haymitch stills my arm.

"No, let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."

"That's against the rules," I say, my jaw tightening.

"Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better," Haymitch explains to me then turns to Katniss. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"

For an answer, Katniss extracts the knife and hurls it across the room embedding it between two panels. We all pause, my mouth hanging open. Katniss tucks two strands that have come apart from her braid behind either ear.

"Stand over here. Both of you," directs Haymitch. We're in the middle of the room as he walks circles around us. Poking at our limbs, closely examining our faces. Considering until he seems to make his mind up. "Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough." He thinks for a moment then continues. "All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking and I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say."

"Fine," I say. Although, it's not fine exactly, but it will do for now. Maybe there's a chance I can get him to care a little more about us.

"So help us," says Katniss. "When we get to the arena, what's the strategy at the Cornucopia for someone-"

"One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist," says Haymitch.

"But-" starts Katniss, already resisting. I smile a little though no one notices.

"No buts. Don't resist," says Haymitch. With that last piece of advice he grabs a bottle and leaves.

In no time after his exit, the train enters a tunnel that darkens the room to near pitch. We've entered the realm of the Capitol. Built within a cradle of mountains forming a strong defensive line to withstand an attack from rebellious districts. The leaders of Panem of long ago knew exactly what kind of stronghold would secure the safety of their citizens from the poorer outlying districts. By contrast, the Capitol is golden while 12 is congealed in coal dust and sweat. The have-nots kept away by miles of rock and earth.

Katniss and I find ourselves in the prolonged darkness and silence once again. It isn't until the brakes are gently applied that we're cast into the bright white light of the day and we know, out of the tunnel and finally at our destination. We run to the window giddy to see what we have only seen on television. When I see the buildings and tiled streets and eccentric residents, the colors I use to make frostings at the bakery come to mind. Except the colors here are more intense, loud, painful to the eyes in the glaring sun. Perhaps at twilight they will be more muted and suitable.

We approach the train station where hoards of people are packed in to watch the Tributes arrive. They're cheerfully waving to us and calling our names, too, I'm sure. I can't hear them through the glass. I've never seen anyone so happy to see me. I wave back. I can't help it. It's sort of uplifting if you try not to think about why we're really here.

We arrive at the train station and that's when I notice Katniss has stepped back from her place beside me at the window. She has that warily look of mistrust I'm noticing more often of late.

"Who knows?" I offer, "one of them may be rich."

Twenty-four have-nots will finally glimpse the life in the Capitol. We're are all celebrities now and will be treated royal. Better than most of the richest and famous Capitol citizens. Up until we're sent into the arena. Then the Hunger Games will truly begin.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Hours. How many, I don't know, but I've been here for hours wearing nothing more than a thin robe (for some of the time) and a continual wincing expression. My prep team, consisting of three brightly ornamented megalomaniacs, have left me in a steel room sitting on a cold steel table. My stylist, Portia, will be in to greet me in a few moments, they say.

Earlier this morning, as soon as the train doors opened, Peacekeepers lead us to a car and drove to the Remake Center where Katniss and I were split up. The confidence I had on the train regarding Haymitch's advice to trust our stylists is dwindling. Most of my day I've spent naked either being soaped, scrubbed, rinsed, plucked, lathered, hosed, scoured, oiled then patted dry. Next, I expect Portia will be putting me in an oven and basting me every half hour.

In it's entirety, really, I have been bathed all day. Then the thought occurs to me that this is Haymitch's doing. I wonder if the other Tributes are going through the same agonizing bathing ritual. Or if I have been the subject of some sort of payback. You would think having twelve baths/showers would be an enjoyable experience, but it is the intensity in which the soap is applied, the sandpaper-like feeling of the washing cloths used, the instruments intended to beautify but rather inflict pain. For instance, I was approached by a member of my prep team with what appeared to be an innocuous pen. As she placed it on my chin I thought she was inking designs like her own flourishing swirls tattooed to frame her face. Instead I felt a _zap_ at the point where the pen touched me.

"Don't jump," she said annoyed. "I'll have to do it again if I don't target the follicle just right." The electrocution session lasted what felt like at least an hour.

Just as I'm patting the bruise on my jaw, Portia steps into the room. Her frame is slight but she commands quite a presence for someone her size.

"Hello, Peeta," she says extending her hand to shake mine. "My name is Portia," she smiles warmly but business like. "Please remove your robe."

I do as she asks. This is the fourth stranger to see me naked today. I have to say, I'm more comfortable now than I was when I first arrived. Perhaps I'm subconsciously taking my mentor's advice not to resist after all.

A gold pen materializes in Portia delicate hand. I startle as she clicks it then exhale when she begins to write on a large note pad. She encircles me twice, three times, four, five then I stop counting. All the while she takes notes.

"That'll do," she says. "Put on your robe and follow me."

Just off the prep room is a small sitting room with deep brown couches made of a leather. Portia pushes a button on the table. The surface opens where a large tray of food appears. Half a dozen, what I can only describe as square pies, steam and fill the air with their savory aroma. Cheese bubbles through the golden crust. Next to the pies is a mound of variegated leafs in shades of green, purple and red tossed in a clear glistening sauce.

Portia sits opposite me and gestures for me to start eating. "I'll do most of the talking for now and you can ask me questions after you've eaten."

My self consciousness ebbing away the pangs of hunger gain my attention. It has to be after the lunch hour. Without anymore hesitation, I begin to eat. Immediately, the effects of the food bring me back to myself. The humiliating preparations behind me, the death trap that is the arena ahead of me, I stick to my plan I decided on the trip here to take my time in the middle.

"We, the stylists for 12, want to make an impression so-" she begins but I interrupt her.

"Before you go into all that," I say with my mouth full of salad, "tell me something about yourself." I figure I can eat and talk. My time on earth is short so a little multitasking is in order.

According to the knit in her brow I've stumped her. It's the first time I take in her appearance. Especially her green eyes. They set off brightly against her skin, which is much like the creamy hot chocolate I had this morning. Shimmering gold strands interplay through her curly black mane that ends at her shoulders. Her clothing, unlike her prep team and most of the Capitol, is dark in hue. Several bold pieces of gold jewelry bedeck her neck and wrists. Her make-up done to accentuate her bright eyes, curved cheek bones and smooth, clear skin.

"What do you mean," she says. I imagine no Tribute has ever asked her anything personal before.

"You're going to learn an awful lot about me in the next week. More than you want to hear about. I'm not very interesting. So, I want to know about you. Let's start with how many Hunger Games have you been a stylist for?"

"This is my third year as a stylist. I've been on a prep team before."

"You worked your way up?"

"In a matter of speaking," she confirms.

"Now I know I'm in good hands," I say smiling. I coax a smile out of her, too. More relaxed, less guarded. "Go on then," I say. "You were saying about making an impression?"

Being naked most of the day should have prepared me for the outfit intended for me tonight. The black, tight bodysuit feels like wearing a thin sock that caresses every part of my body. The sensation smothering and uncomfortable. But displaying the silhouette of my manhood for all the nation isn't my main worry.

"Cinna, Katniss' stylist, and I have been working on a synthetic flame," Portia says to me. She's standing on a stool managing a headdress to stay in place on my head. One of my prep team is fastening a cape to my costume. "The effect will be uncanny. Like you really are on fire."

"What?"

"Done!" She says ignoring the look of consternation that is sure to be on my face. "Let's get moving then." She steps off the stool and kicks it aside.

Portia and the team move onward without me. I catch up to them in a couple of strides. They're moving so fast it takes an effort to keep up despite my longer legs. I wonder if they're in a hurry to see me burn or if my own dread is slowly paralyzing my body in a an effort for my mind to catch up and tell me to put the brakes on this thing. Not one of them seems to be concerned. Rather anticipation and excitement are alight in their faces. They must all believe this demented scheme for District 12, who historically goes unnoticed, to steal the spotlight is going to work. Worst case Katniss and I fry as collateral damage. Win win for the Capitol, I see.

We approach the end of the corridor where Katniss and her stylist are waiting. Katniss is wearing the same black outfit, cape, headdress and countenance of a person who's just been told _I'm going to set you on fire but everything will be fine. _

Judging by the way Portia and the prep teams are congratulating Cinna, he is the brainchild behind this. I'm just about to pull up my sleeves to show the burn scars on my arms from what it's like getting too close to a wood burning oven when were pushed into a elevator that takes us down to the stables. On our descent I try to peel back my taut sleeves to no avail. I wonder how they plan to remove this outfit off my body and then think the flames will probably singe it off. It's all I can do to keep from laughing out loud at the irony. Either I'm beginning to relax or becoming giddy with delirium.

We spill out into the organized chaos transpiring as prep teams and stylists escort and position their Tributes on assigned chariots. Being 12 ours is located at the back. Katniss and I step up onto our chariot while our stylists move our bodies just so and adjust our costumes. They step down to talk between themselves. We're moments away from the opening ceremonies.

"What do you think," Katniss whispers. "About the fire?"

"I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," I say through a smile. Portia and Cinna are looking up at us periodically.

"Deal. I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle."

"Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" I say looking around.

"With all the alcohol in him it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame," she says.

Then we're both laughing. Levity makes it's way to us in spite of what our future holds. I'm thankful for the release. I think this is the first time have heard Katniss' laugh. It's deeper than a school girl giggle but not an obnoxious guffaw. I hope I get to hear it again.

A booming introduction of music fills the stables as the enormous metal doors open. The sound of thousands of people roaring overtake the music. I feel my heart pumping faster and stronger. Districts 1 and 2 are pulling forward by their horses and the crowd is loving them. They are the chronic favorites. We are pulled forward a few feet at a time as preceding districts exit into the streets, our turn approaching.

"Here we go then," Cinna says with lighted torch in hand. He touches the flames with our capes. I recoil as any normal person would but find there is no heat to this fire. Just a disturbance in the air around me. He lights our headdresses next then let's out a sigh of relief. "It works."

_What? It works as in it's functioning properly or not scorching human flesh?_

"Remember," he tilts ups Katniss' chin and trains his eyes on both of us."Heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!" He jumps from the chariot and looks back to tell us something else but he can't be heard over the deafening music. He gestures this time and I think I get it.

"What's he's saying?" Katniss turns to me and I see her for the first time engulfed in the fake flames. All her features I studied from a distance are remarkable in such closeness and made radiant by Cinna's creation. I give myself one second to gaze and admire before she can start to feel creepy about it.

"I think he wants us to hold hands," I say. I take her right hand and Cinna nods giving a thumbs up.

The sun has just set. They sky baring a soft range of colors as the day blends into night. There is an slight pause of wonder as the first of the crowds we pass sees us. Then the roaring surpasses decibels above the cheering of the previous districts. High above us our faces fill large television screens. Framed in fire, smiles wide, hand-in-hand, I can hear the bellows and whoops all the way from District 12 as they swell with pride. I hear our district number, my name, her name, the exhilarating music in the background of it all.

Roses are raining down upon us. Katniss catches one and blows a kiss, the crowd eager to receive it. In the stroke of genius that created this fire, Cinna has widened our opportunity for sponsors to take notice of two Tributes from an otherwise unnoteworthy outlying district. A feat never achieved in any Games before. I feel this year's Games will be distinctly remarkable. I feel one of us has a chance.

The street opens up as we near the City Circle. Our well-trained horses turn deftly to find our place among the other chariots.

The pressure in my left hand loosens but I hold on. "No, don't let go of me, please. I might fall out of this thing."

She concedes and we remain unseparated. There is no danger of either one of us plummeting to the street below. Maybe when the horses were racing us down the thoroughfare but certainly not now-as we are slowing to a stop. Instead, the feel of her hand in mine steadies me in another kind of way.

Amid the grandest buildings of the richest in the Capitol, we stop in front of the Presidents Mansion. The music ends, President Snow welcomes us. He is a thin man with snow-white hair. He speaks with an authoritative and commanding voice inconsistent with his stature. The President makes his closing marks. The national anthem plays while the screens pan the faces of all the Tributes. However, it's mine and Katniss' illuminated profiles that are primarily displayed. Thank you again to Cinna and Portia. We set off again making one final lap around the circle then trot under the eaves of the Training Center.

We're welcomed by our prep teams and stylists as the doors of the Training Center close off the city from this dominion we will call home from now until the Games. Portia and Cinna help us down from our chariot and remove and extinguish our blazing accessories. Having no pretext to keep Katniss' hand locked in mine we let each other go to massage the feeling back into our own hands.

I finally have a moment to catch my breath. In the respite, the acrimony in the room is immediate. Envy lines the eyes of the other Tributes whose favor of the Capitol we stole. Especially the Careers. The largest of them, the boy who is more man than child, from 2, he has Katniss in his sights and I'm positive it not because he think she looks amazing in a skintight bodysuit.I've seen that look on the faces of previous Tributes, the lethal ones. It's the same determined look when the decision is made who is targeted as the _one_ to kill.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me," I say to Katniss. I step in front of her before she can notice her onlooker. "I was getting a little shaky there."

"It didn't show. I'm sure no one noticed," she says. _How kind of her._

"I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you. You should wear flames more often. They suit you," I say. Flames or not, she's difficult not to notice though she has never noticed me. And here I am in this impossible situation with her, where the end holds nothing happy for me.

She gazes up at me, thinking. Always thinking, that's Katniss. Deciding, planning, doing. She'll go far in the arena with her brains and skill. Unexpectedly she kisses me. The warmth radiating from the spot her lips touched my face seems to heal the my aching bruise. I'm certain if I look in the mirror it's faded away.


	6. Chapter 6

Notes: Thank you for being patient with me. This chapter is quite long but I enjoyed writing it. I almost clipped it but thought we needed more time to see Peeta think things through. Enjoy!

Chapter 6

Within the towering Training Center each floor corresponds directly to the district numbers. The top floor, level 12, is reserved just for us and our team. This is where Katniss and I will sleep and take most of our meals. The ride up the crystal elevator directly to the top feels like we're flying up and away from the ground. My knees a little weak, my stomach churns but it's thrilling all the same. I can't wait to ride it going down tomorrow.

Effie Trinket joined our party just as we were getting into the elevator. Extremely pleased with our debut at the Tribute Parade she has not stopped talking. Therefore, I have intermittently stopped listening. In her ridiculously lyrical cadence I hear brief snippets of a one-way conversation. Unbelievable lines like, "all these years and I'm finally an escort to popular tributes!" and "I was talking to Mr. and Mrs. so-and-so, they're a very influential couple…" and "how you've both successfully struggled to overcome the barbarism of your district," and "…very clever of me, "Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!" "

_Huh? What was that last one? _

There are many things about Effie I can accept. Her inability to decipher the fine line between what is meant to be a well-intended comment but results in a offending backhanded remark. Her judgmental attitude regarding our district. The higher regard for outwardly appearances than for human compassion. All of these attributes are a product of living within a system that champions separation and entitlement, rewarding those who succeed in demonstrating them. But complete idiocy, I have to draw the line somewhere.

"Unfortunately," Effie goes on, "I can't seal the sponsor deals for you. Only Haymitch can do that. But don't worry. I'll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary."

Ok, maybe not a complete idiot. I'll chalk her up to being grossly unaware. Admittedly, Effie is present and a constant. Which a lot more than I can say about our mentor. Where is he anyway?

Effie shows Katniss to her bedroom. They disappear down a hall wallpapered in silver. I decide to hang back so I can thank Portia and Cinna personally. If either Katniss or I make it out of this thing alive, their styling efforts would play an integral part.

Cinna notices me behind them. "Peeta, I didn't get a chance to properly meet you. I'm Cinna. You looked splendid out there. All of Panem will never forget how you looked tonight."

"It's Katniss that was the star tonight. I just happened to be caught in her orbit," I say. Cinna smiles back at me. He knows it's true.

"Thank you," I say to him and Portia. "What you did for us… truly, I can't even begin to appreciate it's magnitude…" I break off not knowing what more to say. Cinna forms the smallest of smiles and keeps his deep brown eyes on mine. Portia's first expression on the other hand is difficult to read. Her green eyes dart to the floor and then she quickly excuses herself.

I'm bewildered that I might have offended her though I don't see how. Before I can give it much thought, Cinna says, "Come with me. You have to see this."

He leads me to a flight of stairs opposite the corridor to the bedrooms. Climbing up we reach a room with a domed ceiling and a door opening to the outside. As soon as the door is thrown open we're greeted with a rush of cool air. I stop and gaze at the view before me. The Capitol shines in twinkling lights dotted among a dark landscape. The mountains surrounding the city must be out there somewhere though they can't be seen now. I'll have to come out here one time during the day. Perhaps when the sun is setting, it's soft glow taming the colors of this vibrant city.

"This isn't even the best part." Cinna's voice startles me. Momentarily, I forgot he was here. I follow him around the domed room to the other side of the roof to find a glorious tinkling garden. Plots of flowers and potted trees fill this half of the roof. Sliver chimes hang from boughs of trees, swaying in the wind immersing it with their music.

"Why are Tributes allowed up here? What's to keep them from jumping over?" I ask.

"I'll show you," he says. We walk to the edge of the roof and I look down over side. I expect to see a large net of some sort surrounding the building but there's nothing but air. "Put your hand over the side," Cinna instructs.

When I do my hand jerks back from a short electrical shock. Nothing painful but noticeable. I stare out into the distance. I can barely make out the silhouette of the mountains. Cinna begins to speak in a quiet tone as if not to be overheard in spite of the wind and the chiming. Apparently, one can never be too cautious in the Capitol.

"You'll have to excuse Portia. She's seen too many kids leave and never come back. These past years she has perfected the art of keeping her distance. But you," he smirks at me, "you're getting to her. Making her feel again."

_That's a novel concept. _It's widely thought outside of the Capitol that it's citizens are incapable of seeing Tributes as humans. How else do you send a child to fight to their death while cheering them on if you have no more regard for them than you would a feral animal?

"Not everyone here is candy coated and callous," Cinna says as if reading my mind. "That's why I wanted to work with her."

"Why do it at all?" The question escapes me before I can stop myself.

Cinna smirks again. There's more he wants to tell me but can't. Surely we can't be overheard up here. But maybe, just for safe keeping, he has to.

"Keep being who you are, Peeta. She should get to know the real you. Let's get back so you can get ready for dinner."

Having endured enough showers to last me what's the rest of my life, I decide to skip it tonight. A change of clothes, that's what I really need. Turns out, pealing myself out of the bodysuit is easier than I was dreading. It takes several tries to figure out how to program my closet to select an outfit I like. After four attempts (resulting in colors that would even make Effie Trinket flinch) and a verbal threat to unplug the machine and march in the closet myself, finally, something in soothing earth tones and loose-fitting is presented to me. I decide to complete the look with what my mother would call a dinner jacket.

Haymitch arrives late to dinner just after the wine is poured. To our astonishment he is properly dressed and groomed. I catch myself impolitely gawking then bow my head to look at my soup instead. _Yum, mushroom_.

A young servant girl in a white tunic refills my glass with more wine and I thank her with a nod of my head. Before I know it, I have gobbled down my dinner-lighter than lasts night but equally filling and succulent-and emptied my wine glass. Just as I refuse more of the mead, a glistening cake the color of gingerbread is set down at the center of the table. Small round candied fruits in the deep colors of autumn are set amongst it's layers. As if it wasn't captivating enough, one of the servants sets the cake alight and stands back as Katniss and I stare in wonderment.

"What makes it burn?" Katniss asks the servant, "Is it alcohol? That's the last thing I wa-oh! I know you!"

I pry my eyes away from the cake and notice Katniss gaping at the servant with surprised familiarity. The girl, on the other hand, is not only surprised but panicked. She shakes her head furiously and scurries from the dining area. As confusing as it is to me the others are staring down at Katniss like she broke the law.

"Don't be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an Avox?" snaps Effie. "The very thought."

"What's an Avox?" says Katniss.

"Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue so she can't speak," answers Haymitch. "She's probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you'd know her."

"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order," explains Effie. "Of course, you don't really know her." By the sound of it, the underlining of what Effie's saying is, you _shouldn't_ know her.

It is very likely no one outside of Katniss' family can read her expression, expect her maybe boyfriend Gale. But I'm guessing Katniss knows that servant girl beyond these walls of confinement. Puzzling. They would have known each other in District 12. How is that possible? I've never seen her. She's not a townie. And her red hair eliminates her from seam folk. The tension in the atmosphere is enough to make me sweat and I'm not the one in the middle of it. Can it really be a crime to know an Avox?

"No, I guess not, I just-" Katniss says.

"Delly Cartwright," I snap my fingers like the name came to me after trying to recall it. "That's who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she's a dead ringer for Delly."

No she's not. I can almost hear the thought in Katniss' head. But the table finally let's it's guard down. They don't notice Katniss exhale in relief as she tucks a loose strand behind her ear.

"Of course, that's who I was thinking of. It must be the hair," Katniss says, nodding.

"Something about the eyes, too," I say, playing along.

All of which is pure fiction. The only thing the servant and Delly have in common is that they pee sitting down. Delly's name popped into my head because she was one of the last of my friends to hug me before leaving my goodbye room in the justice building. Katniss needed a coverup as I'm sure there are unseen others listening to every word spoken. As far as alibis go it's lousy but the best I could come up with, I tell myself.

Oh, well. If that's all it is," says Cinna. "And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specifically in honor of your fiery debut."

The cake is as tasty and sweet as it was uniquely beautiful. After clearly my plate of every last crumb, we adjourn to the sitting room to watch the recaps of the opening ceremony. Our blazing entrance was unexpected… magical… unforgettable. I may have worn the same flames as Katniss but I was nowhere near as radiant. I stood beside her as an equal, but it is clear to me, as I am watching our glowing figures light up the boulevard, that she was the center of all Panem.

I shake my head just slightly. Even sitting next to her I find myself slipping into a trance.

"Whose idea was the hand holding?" says Haymitch.

"Cinna's," says Portia.

"Just the perfect touch of rebellion," says Haymitch. "Very nice."

Rebellious thoughts did not cross my mind for a moment when I felt her hand in mind. Bliss. Weak-kneed. A little dizzy. Much like the elevator ride we took to get up here. Thinking back, none of the other districts interlocked hands. None in history now that I think on it some more. Haymitch might be right. We were the first. We will be remembered.

"Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Meet me for breakfast and I'll tell you exactly how I want you to play it," says Hamitch. "Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk."

Great. Because I need to talk to Katniss. More specifically, I need her to talk to me about what happened just before dessert.

After a round of goodnights, we walk back to the bedroom corridor. We arrive at her room first and I turn to face her while leaning against her door frame, my interest piqued. "So, Delly Cartwright," I say. "Imagine finding her look a like here."

As expected, Katniss' usual response, the look of someone sizing me up. She looks to the side down the hallway, maybe fearing as I do that we are somehow not only being overheard but watched. This 'Delly' story must be something good.

"Have you been up to the roof yet?" I offer. "Cinna showed me. You can practically see the whole city. The wind's a bit loud, though."

"Can we just go up?"

"Sure. Come on."

Katniss follows me up the stairs and out the door onto the roof. She exhales audibly. Only a couple hours ago I was here and still I'm taken back by the view. We walk towards the edge and Katniss peeks over the side contemplating, like I did, the thoughts of suicide tributes might earmark while up here.

"I asked Cinna why they let us up here. Weren't they worried that some tribute might decide to jump over the side?" I say.

"What'd he say?" Katniss asks.

"You can't." Gingerly, because I know what's coming, I dip my hand over the railing and it flies back up not of my own accord. "Some kind of electrical field throws you back on the roof."

"Always worried about our safety," Katniss says. "Do you think they're watching us now?"

"Maybe," I venture. The Capitol wouldn't invest all this time and money into us only to be surprised with new revelations during the games. No, they are compelled to spy on us for that reason. To be ready for anything. To maintain control.

"Come see the garden," I say.

The combination of wind and wind-chiming provide the right conditions to talk freely, not above a whisper, that is. The anticipation is building and my 'let's take an evening stroll' guise is becoming tiresome to uphold. I look right into Katniss' eyes willing her to begin the Avox story.

I watch as Katniss cradles a blossom with her fingertips. She whispers audibly. I lean in a bit closer to hear.

"We were hunting in the woods one day. Hidden, waiting for game."

"You and your father?"

"No, my friend Gale."

_Friend? _ My hear skips a beat.

"Suddenly all the birds stopped singing at once. Except one. As if it were giving a warning call. Then we saw her. I'm sure it was the same girl. A boy was with her. Their clothes were tattered. They had dark circles under their eyes from no sleep. They were running if their lives depended on it," Katniss says and takes a breath.

I instantly become aware, as Katniss pauses in her story, that I was only half-listening - my mind still working out that Gale is only a friend. But I can over think that later. I better pay more attention. So far, two people, boy and girl, running for the their lives…

"The hovercraft appeared out of nowhere. I mean, one moment the sky was empty and the next it was there. It didn't make a sound, but they saw it. A net dropped down on the girl and carried her up, fast, so fast like the elevator. They shot some sort of spear through the boy. It was attached to a cable and they hauled him up as well. But I'm certain he was dead. We heard the girl scream once. The boy's name, I think."

Katniss' storytelling urges vivid images of what she is describing. At this point I swallow hard. Imagine, being killed in such a way. I cease this line of thinking as it is very well our reality by next week.

"Then it was gone, the hovercraft. Vanished into thin air. And the birds began to sing again, as if nothing had happened."

"Did they see you?" I say.

"I don't know. We were under a shelf of rock," she says.

But demonstrated by the girl's convulsive reaction in the dining room I'm certain she saw Katniss and Gale. I think Katniss knows this too. A pang of guilt hits my stomach. My morbid curiosity has lead Katniss to relive a horrible memory. She's staring off, caught up in what happened back home in the woods. Probably wondering what she should've done differently to save the girl from becoming an Avox. Nothing. If I could answer her, I would tell her she could do nothing against the Capitol.

"You're shivering, " I say as I shrug off my jacket. I swing it about her shoulders as she rocks on her feet. This story must have really gotten to her. Maybe giving her my jacket is a way to apologize. But I know it's not enough. Will she have nightmares because of this? Lots of good my jacket will do to ward those off.

"They were from here?" I say, partly because I was curious, mainly because I couldn't think of any other way to distract her from seeing my hands shake as i fastened the button just below her neck. I see her nod. "Where do you suppose they were going?"

"I don't know that," she says. "Or why would they leave here?"

"I'd leave here,"I say louder than i intended. I look around out of habit and find no one else up here besides us. But that doesn't mean we are alone by any means. "I'd go home now if they let me," I say in the same volume so as to be overheard. "But you have to admit, the food's prime."

Truly, I would remain right here. On this rooftop with Katniss as long as she wanted to be here with me. Going home without her seems unnatural. In District 12 I spent much of my free time in a daze working up the courage to talk to her. Now here I am, on what seems like the top of the world, overlooking the most beautiful city, having an actual conversation with her. I don't want to go back to a time or place where I can't do this anymore. No, I would stay right here. That's why it pains me when I finally say…

"It's getting chilly. We better go in."

Within the warmth of the building I find more courage within myself. "Your friend Gale. He's the one who took your sister away at the reaping?"

'Yes, do you know him?" she asks.

"Not really. I hear the girls talk about him a lot. I thought he was your cousin or something. You favor each other," I say, wondering myself where am I going with this.

"No, we're not related," she says.

"Did he come to say good-bye to you?" My heart must be dictating this course of intrusive questioning because my head is spinning trying to come up with excuses for my ill-regarded prying.

"Yes," she says. I'm not looking at her out of embarrassment but /i could tell now she is watching me. "So did your father. He brought me cookies."

I look up in surprise. That got my attention. "Really? Well, he likes you and your sister. I think he wishes he had a daughter instead of a houseful of boys."

I slow my pace ever so slightly as it dawns on me we are closing in on her room. "He knew your mother when they were kids," I say.

"Oh yes. She grew up in town," Katniss says.

Back at her door, where our first meaningful conversation started, she gives me back my jacket. "See you in the morning then."

"See you," I walk towards my room grinning like a fool.

In my room, dressed in pajamas while sipping what the in-room menu called a Coffee Royal, I go through every word Katniss spoke tonight and analyze it. What I can conclusively declare is that Gale is not her boyfriend. He, at most, is a very good friend. Maybe even her best friend. Does she like him? Does he like her? Debatable. I don't have enough to go on to answer either of those.

It's unclear to me what I intend to accomplish with this information. Our fates are intertwined in the worst possible way. She can't live unless I die. And my heart aches at the thought of returning to District 12 knowing she never will. There is even the possibility that we would face off against each other at the very end. That outcome is pretty clear cut. I'd drop whatever weaponry I'd be clutching and invite her in. I'd die knowing she made it and I think I can find solace in that.

Well, for my first night at the Capitol, I've hit on some deep philosophical discoveries about myself. It's just the beginning. In between the slaughtering there will be moments for reflection. I've watched it in Tributes of past Games. They change after witnessing a killing, escaping a near death, killing someone themselves. Those moments weaken a Tribute or make them stronger. Those moments can determine a Victor. Cameras everywhere, all around the arena, capture breakdowns or recoveries for all the world to judge if one is a worthy enough contestant to believe in and sponsor or cast aside.

My mug is empty. My head heavy from the weight of spirits and aberrant challenge that lies before me. Training for the Games. Then the Games itself. Immediately the effects of my drink take me over and I plop down on my bed. The mug rolls out of my open hand and before I close my eyes to welcome sleep, I hear it clatter on the floor.


End file.
